in a conspiracy against him, it
is perhaps with the fishing-tackle that he has most constant difficulties.

"My dear, have you any idea where my rod is? No, don't get up--I'll look if
you'll just tell me where--"

"Probably in the corner behind the chest in the orchard room."

"I've looked there."

"Well, then, did you take it in from the wagon last night?"

"Yes, I remember doing it."

"What about the little attic? You might have put it up there to dry out."

"No. I took my wading boots up, but that was all."

"The dining-room? You came in that way."

He goes and returns. "Not there." I reflect deeply.

"Jonathan, are you _sure_ it's not in that corner of the orchard room?"

"Yes, I'm sure; but I'll look again." He disappears, but in a moment I
hear his voice calling, "No! Yours is here, but not mine."

I perceive that it is a case for me, and I get up. "You go and harness.
I'll find it," I call.

There was a time when, under such conditions, I should have begun by
hunting in all the unlikely places I could think of. Now I know better. I
go straight to the corner of the orchard room. Then I call to Jonathan,
just to relieve his mind.

"All right! I've found it."

"Where?"

"Here, in the orchard room."

"_Where_ in the orchard room?"

"In the corner."

"What corner?"

"The usual corner--back of the chest."

"The devil!" Then he comes back to put his head in at the door. "What are
you laughing at?"

"Nothing. What are you talking about the devil for? Anyway, it isn't the
devil; it's the brownie."

For there seems no doubt that the things he hunts for are possessed of
supernatural powers; and the theory of a brownie in the house, with a
special grudge against Jonathan, would perhaps best account for the way in
which they elude his search but leap into sight at my approach. There is,
to be sure, one other explanation, but it is one that does not suggest
itself to him, or appeal to him when suggested by me, so there is no need
to dwell upon it.

If it isn't the rod, it is the landing-net, which has hung itself on a
nail a little to the left or right of the one he had expected to see it
on; or his reel, which has crept into a corner of the tackle drawer and
held a ball of string in front of itself to distract his vision; or a
bunch of snell hooks, which, aware of its protective coloring, has
snuggled up against the shady side of the drawer and tucked its
pink-papered head underneath a gay pick